by Carol Arens
Olivia Cavill Shaw.
‘She will come with us, of course. Let’s just see which among them will be devoted enough to follow her.’
Would she? There was no reason for her to. Olivia’s place—her home—was here. Since Joe did not have a home it hardly mattered where he went, but she had every reason to remain where she was.
But then, Ma had not been speaking of Olivia.
‘Mansfield, he might, but most of the young fools are so caught up in high-society posing, they would not be likely to.’
‘All the better then. We will see who cares for her.’ Ma smiled over at him. ‘And what about you? Has there not been a young lady who has captured your attention?’
‘Since I thought I was going home I would not have encouraged anyone’s attention, let alone sought it out.’
Not that his heart had not become entangled anyway.
‘Well, my son, now you may!’
A sliver of something hopeful pierced his gloom. He let the conversation drop while he let it glow for a moment.
‘I feel a bit like the Grim Reaper bearing so much bad news, and I’m sorry for it. But I have every reason to believe I will see you happy again. Just give it some time, you will see.’
He thought of the grave in Kensal Green Cemetery. His father had been so distraught he had crossed an ocean in order to outrun his grief, and his fear. Yet Pa had lived a good life, a happy one with Ma.
Surely he could honour his father by doing the same?
‘You are far from being the Grim Reaper.’ He put his arm about her shoulder, leading her across the street and back to their rooms. ‘Facts are what they are. I’m only sorry that you had to face all of that alone.’
‘It was—’ He figured she was trying to find a way to say that it was all right. It was what mothers did, tried to make things right. But it was not all right. Ma had been to hell and back.
‘I’ve got you now,’ he said and felt her lean ever so slightly into him. ‘You will not be alone again.’
Chapter Ten
Olivia watched Joe standing at the fountain. He wore the clothing of a man born to society. His hands were shoved in the pockets of the trousers, his shoulders slumped.
He looked sad. But, of course, he was in mourning and it was to be expected. With the day so bright and beautiful, birds singing and blossoms sweetly scenting the air—oh, the contrast must make him feel all the more forlorn.
She ought to do something to cheer him, felt a strong urge to do so, but she could not imagine what.
Not kiss him—again. She knew full well that the only reason he had done it the other night was because he desperately needed an escape from the intensity of his grief.
All she had to offer him now were words—but which ones?
In time life will go on. I’m here if you need me. I understand... All these truisms went through her mind while she watched him. Each of them seemed inadequate.
All of a sudden Victor dashed across the garden, Miss Hopp in pursuit. He latched on to Joe’s trouser leg, hugging tight.
The last thing poor Joe would want was to have to entertain his admirer.
She hurried outside, ready to call Victor to her, but Joe reached down and scooped him up. She stopped where she was because the pair of them were smiling.
Victor squeezed Joe around the neck, then patted his cheek with his plump, half-babyish hand.
‘My father is dead, too.’
Needing to know what her child had to say, she listened from a distance far enough away so that her presence would not interfere.
‘We have that in common then.’ Joe patted Victor’s back. ‘Let’s get each other through it, shall we?’
‘I’m not sad, though. I don’t cry because I miss him, only because I’m sorry I do not have a papa of my own.’
It felt as though a stone hit her belly. She was not aware that he cried. She had been dreading the day when he would begin to wonder why other children had fathers and he did not. For years she had wondered what she would say. Now in the moment all she wanted to do was weep. Her baby was far too young for this sort of hurt and not a bit of it his fault.
Cursing Henry would do no good since he was dead. But a real man, knowing a child depended upon him, would not have happily slid down the path of dissolution which no doubt resulted in a shortened life.
‘I’m sorry for that, too, little cowpoke.’
So far they did not seem to notice her. Neither did they notice Miss Hopp, who stood a distance away with her hand pressed to her mouth.
Did the governess know that Victor cried?
‘I don’t cry so much any more,’ Victor said, looking very seriously into his hero’s eyes. ‘That is why Uncle Oliver sent you to me, so I wouldn’t. I need a Pa and I reckon you need a boy to cheer you up.’
‘I reckon I do, at that. What do you suppose we can play to cheer us up?’
When had Victor begun to use the word ‘reckon’? Or to say ‘Pa’? But when had he cried and when had he stopped? She thought she knew everything about him and was stunned to learn she did not.
‘Big cowboy and little cowpoke go wolf hunting!’
Joe set Victor down, then whistled loudly. A few seconds later the door to the house next door opened and Sir Bristle burst out, tearing across the garden and scattering a flock of pigeons which had been pecking seeds on the pathway.
For all the words of comfort she had tried to summon, it was something as simple as a game that was needed.
Or something as simple as a kiss, she thought, remembering how Joe had sought comfort from her.
A kiss which was not simple at all. On the surface of it, it was a gesture of comfort. But why should it be? What was it that lay under the surface that softened his grief, if only for a moment?
Not casual friendship. Between friends, sympathetic words would suffice.
Watching the cowboys chase the wolf in circles around the fountain, she had to ask herself what it was between them, if not common friendship.
It was important she understood so that she could deal with what was coming.
Joe would be going back to America. The ranch he so loved would need him.
What she ought to do was step in and forbid the bond growing between Victor and Joe.
Yet she stood by, silent and smiling over the laughter and the barking filling the garden.
There would be consequences for it, heartache when they must be parted by an ocean, but she would deal with it tomorrow.
Today she stood in the spring sunshine, smiling inside—happy and grinning with her only worry being whether or not the poor wolf would outrun his pursuers.
* * *
Just because the world caved in did not mean Joe would quit his lessons with Olivia.
For the one thing, he wanted to spend time with her and for the other—he was a blamed baron, a peer of the realm. He needed to understand stately behaviour more urgently than he ever had.
Now that his father might be watching from the heavenly realms, he felt a greater need not to let him down. When there had been only an ocean between them, it didn’t seem to matter so much. Funny how, with mortal life separated from eternal, he felt a greater need to make his father proud.
Which did not mean he wanted to be Baron Haversmere. He did not. He wanted to remain Cowboy Joe.
What he wanted had little to do with anything any more. The plain fact was, he would honour his father.
And, by sugar, there was Olivia. What his mother had said about him finding someone special—he already had.
Sunshine in the darkness was what she was.
The other night, in that horrid moment when he thought his heart would stop beating and his lungs quit breathing because he did not want to face the next day, hour, or even moment, she had been there to make him want to.
; For all that he fought the idea of being baron, there was one bright spot in it. Where there was a baron there was typically a baroness.
He knew he was getting a bit ahead in his thoughts, better to contain them to the here and now.
Just now, it was time for his afternoon lesson.
He crossed the garden. She was not waiting for him as she usually was. She might assume he no longer needed tutoring since as far as she knew he would be going back to America.
He exited the garden by the side gate, then walked around to the front door. The butler let him in with a nod and a word of condolence.
‘Lord Haversmere,’ he said with a polite bow. ‘Please make yourself comfortable while I ask if Lady Olivia is receiving callers.’
Ramsfield’s demeanour was more formal than it had been. He didn’t care for the change, but supposed it was something he had best get used to.
It took only moments before he heard quick, light footsteps.
Olivia rounded the corner and came into the room, her cheeks flushed pink.
‘Good day, my lord.’ She presented a small curtsy. ‘I’m sorry to have kept you waiting. I did not realise we still had an appointment.’
‘Olivia?’ He advanced upon her, his strides firm and no nonsense. The butler pivoted on his heel and slipped out of the room. ‘I can take this drivel from anyone but you.’
The press of her lips accentuated the delicate brackets at the corner of her smile. ‘I did need to hear you say so. After all, I could not presume to—’
‘What you can presume is that you are a—’ He had to catch his words before he revealed too much. ‘A dear friend. You may presume that nothing has changed between us because I bear a title. Isn’t yours higher than mine, anyway?’
‘My brother’s is, but then I married a younger son of—well, it is all complicated muddle. The important thing is that our friendship has not changed. I’m very glad of it.’
Her blush looked pink, pretty and warm. Funny how he felt his own skin flush. Maybe her high colouring was because she was thinking of kissing him. He sure was thinking of it. She had no way of knowing there could be more kisses between them. Many of them if he got his way.
It took him a moment to respond to what she had said because he was so blamed grateful she did not revert to calling him Josiah. By sugar, he nearly hooted out loud.
It would have felt good to hoot. Pa would like to hear him hoot and just knowing so made it seem that he was not so—gone.
‘Now that I’m titled, I suppose I’ll need even more training.’
At that she looked surprised, which made her lips open slightly.
As yet, she did not know he wasn’t returning to America. Nor could she imagine that the ideas he had suppressed as futile no longer were.
When her lips pursed in confusion, he gave himself free rein to imagine them under his, hot and pliant.
‘Do you mind if we go to the garden room?’ he asked.
‘If you like.’ Her brows arched. Perplexity wrinkled her brow, but she led the way without asking questions.
‘I like it here.’ He took off his fancy coat and set it across the back of the chair. He wished he could take off being baron as easily, but here he was.
Not take it all off, though, he thought while walking towards the aviary. Many doors had closed for him with the death of his father, but this one having to do with Olivia had opened.
She followed him to the birdcage, where they watched the feathered creatures flit about.
‘How are you today?’ she asked, the puzzle lines still creasing her brow.
‘Everything is a mess.’ He glanced away from the birds and into eyes the colour of the sky. ‘Nearly everything.’
‘What can I do?’
‘Only listen, if you would not mind.’
‘Shall we sit? I will ring for tea.’
He followed her to the table, sat down, even though his stomach was still too raw for even tea.
‘I’m curious about something,’ she said.
So was he—curls, to be exact. They brushed her cheeks, giving her a softer appearance than usual.
‘Why do you want to proceed with our lessons when you will be returning to America and much sooner than you expected to?’
‘That’s just it. I will not be returning.’
Her mouth fell open in clear surprise. He touched her chin.
She caught his hand, pressed it back down to the table. ‘Why ever not?’
‘My mother sold the ranch to our neighbour.’
Her mouth sagged again, but as soon as he lifted his hand she snapped it shut.
‘What a horrible—oh, Joe, I’m so sorry for it. I know how much you counted on going home. You must be heartsick.’
‘I could be bitter, if I let myself. But I reckon it’s a choice, to live resentful or to look forward to what is next.’
Clearly, Olivia had not made that choice after her husband’s infidelity. She lived in fear of handing her heart over to another man—to him.
‘A choice? I don’t know, Joe. Can one choose to feel one way or another?’ She shook her head and the curls brushed her cheeks. He thought of asking why she had—chosen—to wear them, but he refrained.
He longed to know why she was wearing a less-than-severe hair style. It looked pretty and playful. To his way of thinking it might be because her heart was opening.
True, it was a very large step from a changed coiffure to a kinship of the heart, but he hoped she was taking that step towards him.
‘The fact of the matter is, I cannot change what has happened. I had no choice in it. But I can, and I do, choose to seek a path of hope and not despair.’
‘I believe that one feels what one feels, but truly, I’m glad for your sake that you can do it.’
‘Look for the good,’ he said. ‘It’s my new adage.’
‘Is it?’ Her eyes slanted up with her smile. ‘Does that mean you will forsake your Stetson for the top hat?’
‘There is no good in it to be found.’
Olivia Shaw had the loveliest smile he had ever seen. It propelled him a step further down his chosen path.
‘Apparently you do still require instruction.’
‘It’s why I’m here.’
It was not at all why, yet he could not tell her he came because he craved her company.
If he did, she might take a step back from their friendship. It was his intention to move forward. To deepen what stirred between them—to make it what their kisses indicated it could be.
It did not take looking past his nose to see they would be right together. In loving touches, of course, but there was more. There was that heart connection neither of them had spoken of and yet knew to be there.
‘I’m still as rough as sandpaper. I’d be grateful for everything you can teach me.’
* * *
And she would be grateful to be able to help smooth his rough edges. Not that she wanted them erased. Especially not the wink, or the way he wore his Stetson so that his eyes peeked out playfully from under the brim.
The truth was, she enjoyed his company and, for all that she was dreadfully sorry for what had happened to him, she was the tiniest bit relieved he was not going back to America.
Why was that?
If he went home, she need not fear that Victor was forming an attachment which might break his heart.
Because, for mercy’s sake, there was no way she would be able to explain to a small boy that he must choose to be happy. That he should simply set aside his tears and be glad that he had known a cowboy at all.
She could not explain it since it made no sense.
Feeling halfway giddy inside because Baron Haversmere would remain in London made no sense either. Better that she did not linger over wondering why it did not.
If s
he did, what would she discover? Maybe that in spite of all she had learned about the risk of giving herself to a man, she, too, would adopt a new adage?
Hmm, what would it be if she did? Dance until you trip and fall? No, rather, Dance as though you will never trip and fall.
Yes, if she did adopt an adage she liked the second. It was far more hopeful. Truly, what was the good of having an adage that was not uplifting?
‘I have every confidence that you will smooth out brilliantly.’
‘So have I, but only with your guidance.’
His forehead drew together in worried-looking lines which made the corners of his eyes crease—but in an extremely handsome way. Really, she did not choose to recognise the fact, it simply was. Her rapid heartbeat and the way she felt so warm inside was also a fact. She did not choose the reaction, it was simply happening.
If there was a choice, she would choose not to be all fluttery inside.
Wouldn’t she?
Of course she would! Unless she adopted the adage she had just dreamed up.
‘I need to go up north—to Haversmere. Will you and Victor come with me—us, I mean. Ma, Roselina and Mr Bowmeyer are going, too.’
Go with them? She could not possibly. What folly.
Why would he suggest such a thing?
‘Why must you go?’ she asked instead of asking why she should. ‘It is the middle of your sister’s Season. I think it is not wise to abandon it at this point.’
‘Mischief, or so I’ve been told.’
He gave her the smile that made his eyes crinkle at the corners. She wished he had not, it tended to distract her.
‘But I need you. My lessons are incomplete.’
Why did he have to look at her that way, with his expression so needy, so appealing to her—to her sense of duty? ‘The estate manager at Haversmere sent a letter to my father asking him to come quickly.’
‘But why?’ Why was the estate manager alarmed was what she seemed to be asking, but what she really wanted to know was why he wished for her to go along.
‘Damage to a footbridge. A few lambs fell into the water and needed rescuing.’